


the philosophy of a cynic

by ichorgays



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Basically poetry, But Really Bad, M/M, Open Ending, Philosophy, no storyline in sight, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25996492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ichorgays/pseuds/ichorgays
Summary: will was a hopeless romantic, an abysmal liar, and a philosopher. he had observed all this throughout the long and taxing process that was falling in love with nico di angelo.orsnippets of will solace falling in love with nico di angelo, in the form of overly-descriptive purple prose and some philosophy at the end.
Relationships: Nico di Angelo/Will Solace
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24





	the philosophy of a cynic

**Author's Note:**

> hi ! simon here, i'm so sorry for what you're about to read. if for some reason you are here, i hope you enjoy !

Will was a hopeless romantic, an abysmal liar, and a philosopher. He had observed all this throughout the long and taxing process that was falling in love with Nico di Angelo.

For what little he knew of the universe, he was sure this was as good as it could get. Maybe he didn’t care that he would get fat off of the red wine and grapes that was Nico’s voice, and in all of his drunken glory, he would welcome the rasp of his gravelly tones. Despite all of the poetry spiraling in his throat, Will’s head flickered and swayed like a lantern, casting it’s shadows over all his good intentions. Well, they do say the road to hell is paved with bad ones. He’d welcome hell over Nico’s anger any day, though he was sure they’d become synonymous at this point. 

Will dared anyone to try and keep an injured and delirious Nico di Angelo in bed. Lacking a better option, they'd had to keep a (mostly) willing child of Apollo seated beside him, and a cautious hand on his arm. It didn’t help that every time someone touched him, Will’s eyes would flash with unspoken threats and scorn. He’d taken to reciting tongue-twisters and proverbs to distract him, tripping over his own words in his haste to forget his jealousy. He’ll become a do-it-yourself philosopher within a few days, with nothing to think of besides morality and mortality and other bullshit. 3 days, 3 days that Nico di Angelo had to stay in the infirmary, and Will was on the edge of losing his mind.

Long after the three days had past, and Will had all but banished him from his mind, he reappeared in the infirmary. One of his arms being gripped and tugged by a tall boy in glasses (Jason Grace, Will’s brain supplied unhelpfully), and the other hanging at an odd angle at his side. It was almost comical, the way Will reacted like he had discovered a ticking time bomb under his bed.

“Stop twitching, you’re making it worse.” Will had demanded in a hoarse voice, tugging pathetically at his patient’s good arm. It didn’t help, Nico just glared and insisted that it was fine, it didn’t hurt, everyone was just dramatic. Will rolled his eyes.

Eyes. What an overused poetry trope. The color, the way they mix and shift like paint on a palette. The flecks and marks and speckles of light and dark, the shades in the shadows and when they’re in direct sunlight. Blue eyes, brown eyes, like the sea, coffee, chocolate, the sky. It made him laugh, before. Before what, you might ask? Before him. If you asked Will exactly what color Nico di Angelo’s eyes were, he’d get it spot on. Almost the exact color of amber, held up to the fire, spilt against molten chocolate and the rich metallic color of upturned earth. In the light, they seemed almost see-through, shattered stained glass and honeycombs, while in the shadows they darkened to the black-brown richness of Italian coffee. Always hinting at the hollow emptiness on the edges, beer-bottle green shards that could pierce right through you. Despite all the nauseatingly saccharine metaphors and purple prose Will had written (mentally, of course. he wasn't a complete sap) about Nico’s eyes, when he was confronted with the boy himself, he had yet to speak a single non-medical word to him. 

He’d taken to expressing his affections in a less confrontational way, which involved leaving small, ‘meaningful’ gifts in front of Nico’s door. A rock (yes, really), a scrap of paper with an absolutely awful drawing of a vampire bat, and a ball of yarn. Let’s just say Will’s creative skills did not extend beyond shitty poetry and his taste in sappy romance novels. These 'gifts' usually ended up being thrown into the lake, dismissed as a prank or a mistake.

“You’ve got good bones, Will.” His mother used to say to him. “Good bones, and a greedy mouth. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew.”  
Maybe he was biting off more than he could chew with Nico. Maybe it was all for naught, but he didn’t regret it, not in the slightest. 

Will liked to think he was a good person. Good bones, his mother had said. Good bones, and a greedy mouth. That greedy mouth had given him more trouble than it was worth over the years. So when Nico came to him one night, mouth speaking silent words and silent tears, Will waited. He sat, and he spoke. Words had failed one of them, it was up to the other to fill the gap. 

“Life is short, Nico. It’s short, and it’s so full of meaningless things. Every little word I say won’t matter, in the end. But you’ll keep them in mind, won’t you?”

Every night after that, Nico came. He came, and he stayed. Not one sound left his mouth, and Will didn’t mind. He never did.

“The world is designed to depress us, isn’t it? Everything we are taught leaves us miserable, unhappy with ourselves. Happiness leaves little to be desired, and there’s always more to be desired. Bad for business, i’d say. Maybe one day, we’ll be happy with ourselves, and we’ll be done. Finally. You see, when you’re happy, there isn't much more you want, right? We’re always fighting, for rights, equality, freedom. What happens when we’ve got it all?”

“The world ends, Will. It ends, because there’s nothing left to try for. I don’t think anyone would put up a fight.”

“Maybe, maybe.”

“We don’t know the meaning of life. Maybe that’s the point. There is no meaning. All this fighting is just a way to distract us from the fact that there’s nothing here.”

Will shook his head, the words sounding bitter in his ears. Was this the result of an imbalance in power? The gods had their divinity, all Nico had gotten was pomegranate. Pomegranate and the comfort of knowing he couldn’t fall any further.

“You’re wrong there. I think that is the point. There’s so much to fight for. And when we’ve won, we’ll have our purpose.”“I hope that day comes soon. We’re good people, most of us. We’ve suffered enough.”

They sat in silence for a while. Will intertwined their fingers on the bed, ignoring the cherry stains and the cold. 

“We’ll be okay. We always have been. When the time comes, we’ll be ready. After all, we’ve survived the worst.”

“Together?”

“Together.”


End file.
